by Diane Duane
Baseli’s eyes were on her. Mariarta said, “Thank you for your hospitality. It’s good to know there’s a welcome here, even if it’s a careful one.”
“Cities are good places to be careful,” Baseli said. “But so are the mountains. Have a care for your companion.”
Mariarta nodded and went off.
***
Sleep came late and hard. Plainly Flisch knew her secret; all Mariarta’s desire now was to get away from him. She would be able to manage that tomorrow, or once they got into the mountains. She could even leave early herself, lose him now— But Mariarta had said, in front of men of the town, what she was going to do. Breaking her word now might give credence to any tale Flisch might tell. And what if he does tell? Everybody will know—
She shivered. The fate of a woman discovered alone among men was certain—the only reason most mountain people knew for a woman to be on the roads was that she was “no better than she should be”. At worst, if caught, she would be considered fair game to be dishonored; at best, she would be packed off home— Either way, she would lose her freedom. It will never happen, Mariarta thought. Her hands itched for her crossbow, remembering the feeling of power that came with her first shooting of a man. How pleasant, said something in her, an oddly caressing voice, to have the chance to do that again; and to be justified in it—
Mariarta ground her teeth. It did not have to happen that way. But why did Flisch follow me? She didn’t believe Flisch’s tale of “just feeling like it”....
Yet the soldiers’ tale of the mountain valley above Arosa kept coming back to mind. “A beautiful maiden, enchanted from the olden times...” And the Old one, what was his name, Tor, had said one of the old goddesses was in a mountain near Chur. I’ll find what she wants of me at last.....
Dawn came, and the bells of Chur began wrangling with one another. Chur had about ten churches, each with a bigger bell than the last. One after another they began to ring the Angelus, first the big deep-noted single bells, then the smaller bells that rang in pairs, one high, one low. The melodious jangling racket went on for half an hour, and when they stopped there was no question of anyone in Chur still being asleep.
The last bell, the big one in the cathedral near the Bishop’s house, was still bonging away when Mariarta got to the common room for a hot drink before leaving. She found Flisch sitting in a corner, holding his head. “What do they put in the wine here?” he muttered.
Mariarta called one of the kitchen girls to bring them hot apple-draft and their reckonings. Both came together; Mariarta paid for both. The innkeeper stood counting the money obviously, while Mariarta grinned. “Afraid we won’t be back to pay you anything you’ve missed?”
The innkeeper grunted at her, turning away. “Donkey’s outside.”
Mariarta helped Flisch fetch his baggage. Outside, the day had gone grey. A soft mist was falling from low cloud that drifted among the city’s heights, hiding the tops of the church towers.
“Which road are we taking?” Flisch said.
“Out the far side of town. A road goes up the Schanfiggtal as far as a town called Peist. Then—around the corner of the mountain into the Arosa valley. Twelve miles: we’ll be there tonight, if we waste no time.” Mariarta smiled. “You don’t have to go if you’ve changed your mind—”
“Don’t be foolish. We’ve said what we’ll do; let’s do it.”
“Indeed,” Mariarta said softly, “what man would do otherwise?” And she tugged at Catsch’s rein and started walking.
Silently they passed under the walls of the Bishop’s house, the Hof, making their way to the tower at the upper corner of the city’s “arrowhead”, the Schmiedenturm. It was a smaller gate than the Obertor Gate; the soldiers there looked even more bored. Flisch hurried past them without a word, but Mariarta nodded at the two men standing there—then swallowed, for one of them was Baseli, the guard captain. She had hardly known him under the helmet, and the armor, not leather but bright steel, with the Bishops’ ibex-and-gateway device on the tunic over it. He saw her, said nothing.
Mariarta shouldered her crossbow with the air of one who has no concerns, and went after Flisch.
The road degenerated quickly to a rutted dirt path after it turned a corner in its climbing and got out of sight of the great grey Hof. Mariarta was glad: the dark windows in the blank grey walls made her nervous. There was something else to be nervous of, though—Flisch. He proved a silent companion, as the hours passed, and he walked with a frown on his face not caused by the road or the climb.
“You might at least tell me what your real name is,” Flisch said suddenly.
“That’s my business, I should think. The one I wear suits me well enough.”
“It is your real name, then.” That sly, malicious look Flisch had worn last night reappeared. “Let’s see: what kind of girl’s name might turn into ‘Matti’? Matilda—Madleina, maybe—”
Mariarta merely shifted her crossbow to the other shoulder. “What were you doing in that pass in the middle of the night, I wonder?” she said. “Hunting in those parts is poor this late in the year. But then—those houses. All empty. Plenty of things still in them. Perfect for a little sneak-thieving....”
Flisch turned red. “I would never have stolen anything!”
“Then it was bad judgment that led you there,” Mariarta said, “and kept you there when you’d seen how the place looked. Then when the wind started to rise, and you heard the voices—”
Flisch turned his back on Mariarta, hurrying ahead.
Two can ask questions, she thought, with some satisfaction.
But what am I going to do about him? One way or another, he knows. No matter what we find here, sooner or later he’ll go his way, I mine. And Mariarta could not believe that sooner or later, Flisch would not tell someone.
They kept walking, Flisch ahead, Mariarta and Catsch following, always upward. Passing through through the hamlet of Maladers, they saw new snow covering the sides of the mountain-ring that held Arosa; chief among those peaks was the upreaching antler-prong of the Whitehorn, hardly to be seen against further layers of pale grey-white cloud behind it. At Peist, less a village than a collection of autumn-houses built by the same herding family, they stopped and ate. Here, to Mariarta’s relief, Flisch seemed less angry, looking around him with interest. “Never been this way.”
“Neither have I.”
“It seems as if you like that, though.”
She nodded. “I like new places.”
“Where was your old one?”
Mariarta frowned at him. Flisch said, “You’ve got an Urner accent.”
“Is that what it is?”
Flisch shrugged.
“So where’s your old place, then?” Mariarta said.
“Berschis,” Flisch said, “north, over the mountains; by the big lake.”
“Family there?”
“My father and mother. A sister.”
Mariarta noted the look on his face; and the wind was blowing. “You quarreled with your parents.”
“Yes.” Flisch looked at the snowy ground. “I always wanted to shoot and hunt, but they wanted me to be a blacksmith. So—”
“Well,” she said, dusting snow off herself—it had begun sifting down at last, that fine light snow that always means feet of it before it stops. Always wanted to shoot.... Mariarta pushed her pity aside. Flisch had already caused her too much trouble. “Let’s go,” she said. “We want to make that hut in the Arosa valley before dark.”
They turned eastward with the road. The snow kept falling gently on them from greyness that seemed to start right above their heads.
There were no more villages after Peist. The road was now well up the encircling mountains. At the foot of the cliffs to the left-hand side, the Plessur and its other smaller tributary-streams could be heard shouting along among the stones, far down in the gorge. Mariarta and Flisch kept well to their right, hugging the upslope side.
After two hours, the road f
inished rounding the Langweis spur of Piz Pratsch and bent back on itself, southeastward. Mariarta leaned against a boulder on their right, breathing hard; they had finished a section of path that was steep, and the fear of missing her footing was strong. Flisch was walking on ahead. She called after him, “How is it up there?”
He simply fell sideways and vanished. Mariarta ran up the slope, dragging Catsch after her, stopping short of the spot where she had lost sight of Flisch. The path looked normal, except for a half-circle of snow—and path—suddenly missing on the left-hand side. And below that, something dark, grunting and struggling—
Mariarta pulled the reins off Catsch’s bridle and wound them around her right arm several times, then threw herself on the snow before the crumbled-away part of the ledge, dangling the loose end down. The dark shape flailing around down there caught at them, cried out in despair. “I can’t—”
“Do it!” Mariarta shouted. She saw Flisch grab at the end of the reins, catch them, lose them again, catch them once more. One foot lost its purchase and kicked air, but not before Flisch managed to wind the reins a couple of turns around his wrist. Something cold and wet nuzzled Mariarta’s neck. Bless him, it was Catsch, trying to graze as he always did when she took him off the rein for any period of time. Mariarta caught his bridle, then threaded one loose rein-end through the bridle ring by his neck. Catsch squealed at the sudden added weight, backing hurriedly away from the edge. Stupid he might be, but he was strong: he hauled Mariarta back with him. Flisch’s head and shoulders appeared at the edge of the path. Mariarta grabbed the sleeve of his jacket: with the other hand, still wound in the reins and pinched tight, she whacked Catsch about the head so that he backed further. A few moments later, Flisch was sprawled on the path, beet-red in the face and gasping. Mariarta sat and undid her bruised arm from the reins, her heart drumming in her ears.
After a while Mariarta managed to look at where Flisch had fallen. Not much path was left, only a couple of feet right next to the cliff-slope: what wasn’t there any more had been covered by one of those snow- bridges which wet snow can form with time over even the widest gaps. “We’d better use a stick from now on,” she said. “Here—” She unfastened her climbing-stick from Catsch’s packs, handed it to Flisch.
He got up, still red in the face, and started walking again, testing the snow with the stick. Mariarta got Catsch’s reins back in order and followed slowly. She was surprised when Flisch stopped and threw the stick at a boulder.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
Flisch stood there with his back to her for only a second, then wheeled on her. “Won’t you leave me anything? You save my life, twice now, damn you!—then you make me out to be a hero in front of half of Chur when, when it happened otherwise: won’t you leave me any pride at all?”
Mariarta glared. “I saved your life, yes, but that was for Turté’s sake, not yours! Why did you follow me, then, and threaten me?”
“I never threatened you—”
“With all your talk of men in the inn, and your sly looks, you did! What do you want of me? What harm have I ever done you?”
They walked along in silence for a while. Finally Flisch said angrily, “I want my honor back! I don’t want my life being saved by women!”
Mariarta’s hand itched on the crossbow stock. “One can take it, then, if you like...”
Flisch gaped at her. “I didn’t— I mean—”
“You don’t know what you mean. I wish I did, for then I could be shut of you, one way or another.”
“I don’t know,” Flisch said.
“This is all your fault,” Mariarta muttered. “I wish you’d never climbed the Lucomagno that night.”
“I wish I hadn’t, too,” Flisch said. He started to go around a boulder that lay in their path, stopped and poked the snow with Mariarta’s stick before going around. At last he said, “Sievi told me that you and Turté had been getting friendly—”
“Precisely that: friendly! I talk to her, I don’t pinch her, I don’t shout words at her that sound like I think her a slut: that will make a woman feel friendly indeed! Are you completely an idiot, Flisch?”
“But I thought you were a man.”
“Oho. So what was the plan then? Find me in the mountains, put a bolt into me? An accident: could happen to anyone. Eh, Flisch?”
He swore, and fell silent.
“So you followed me,” Mariarta said, as they topped the saddle between the last spur of Pratsch and the Maran height above Arosa. “How did you find out, finally?”
Flisch laughed. “I saw you pee. Once, I thought you were doing something else. But the second time, before Vaz, I was sure.”
Mariarta’s eyes narrowed. To be betrayed by something so small! “At least then you realized that I was not after Turté.”
“No, but that made it worse.” They edged around a thin part of the path, sloping downward from the saddle. “A man saving my life, that was hard, but it happens. A woman, though—”
“And someone you had been hating until then. ...Ah well. You’re a fool, Flisch, if you think a life saved is honor lost.”
“But a woman can’t—”
“Oh, shut up,” Mariarta said as they made the bottom of the slope, turning the last curve of the path: it ended in snow-covered scree. “Where your soul would be now except for me I don’t know, but it would be seeing more clearly, I’ll wager that much.”
She stood there, breathing hard. The valley of Arosa lay beneath them, an empty bowl, white with snow; nothing to break the pristine view but the roof of one hut, half-buried, visible only by the outline of its eaves. Near the hut lay a dark oblong lake, not frozen yet. Across the white valley-bowl were pine woods; above them, the great mountain Whitehorn. The valleys at its feet were hidden in mist and drifting cloud.
“I don’t care who you’re angry at,” Mariarta said, “yourself for being fooled, or Turté for being friendly, or me for not being what you thought I was; I just wish you’d stop. If I start thinking you’ll betray me, I’ll probably kill you. But that’s what I get for my folly in risking myself to do you a good turn.” She started down the slope, not looking behind.
The wind was flowing into the valley over the saddle they had climbed. On it as he followed her, Mariarta could catch Flisch’s anger and confusion, but all irresolute. Maybe that had been the problem in the pass. He couldn’t decide what to do, and so bore the brunt of the Ride’s anger. If he had opened to them, and not panicked, everything would have been fine. Possibly he knows it. He thinks himself a coward...
Mariarta walked into the heart of the valley. The going was surprisingly easy, the ground fairly even, as she made her way to the hut.
Its eaves were thick with huge icicles. Mariarta was careful to avoid them as she came to the door, which faced the northeastward opening of the valley. Odd, that, she thought, as Flisch joined her. If I had built this, I would have had the door face the lake: it must look fine in summer...
“Strange way to have this facing,” Flisch said, as Mariarta climbed the two steps to the porch that shielded the door.
“I was thinking that.” Mariarta pushed at the door. It swung inward into darkness.
“The wind, maybe. You wouldn’t want it blowing straight in.”
“Yes, the wind...” The hut had a fireplace, with a crane. The windows, one to each wall except the one with the door, were shuttered tight. The usual narrow sennen’s pallets were stacked one above another, three of them, near a bench. Over by the granite hearthstone was a pile of kindling; in the corner near it, some bigger wood.
“It’s too late to do anything else today,” Flisch said. “I’ll go to those pines and get some deadwood.”
“Mind the edge of the lake,” Mariarta called after him.
Flisch’s footsteps crunched away. Mariarta chose some kindling. What am I worrying about? she thought. If he should fall into the lake and freeze, there’s my problem solved. Then Mariarta frowned. Where were these cruel
thoughts coming from? They had become frequent since Flisch appeared.
She concentrated on getting a fire going. There were no pots here, but she had a small one of her own, among Catsch’s baggage. She went out for the donkey, hauled him up the steps. A ring was set in the far wall, on the side of the fireplace away from the beds. Mariarta tethered Catsch to it and put some grain on the floor for him.
After a while, satisfied with the fire, Mariarta went outside to look for Flisch. Dark was falling fast; the haze in the air was thickening to gray fog. The mountains were nearly invisible. Hurry up, Mariarta thought, you’re going to lose your way! But then, wouldn’t that solve her problems too? Many a hunter was killed by being caught out in the cold—
Mariarta shook her head. What’s the matter with me? she thought....but her hands still itched for the bow— “I am not going to kill anyone,” she whispered, “least of all this poor fool. Be still and let me be!”
A breath of laughter, as if heard down the wind. Mariarta peered around the corner of the house, westward toward the pines. I’m getting closer to her. Her thoughts are getting stronger in me—
Flisch loomed up, a dark indistinct figure. “Plenty of deadwood there,” he said, brushing past her into the hut. “Come in and shut the door: why are you wasting the warmth?”
Mariarta went in after him.
***
They ate a hunter’s meal of soup made from dry meat and barley, drank water melted from snow; then talked, somewhat unwillingly.
“That slope on the northwest side of the lake,” Flisch said, “it looks gentle enough. We can climb that way, then circle the whole place at that level. Whitehorn’s spurs come to about that height, too—we can look a good way up the valleys without actually having to climb them.”
“The problem is,” Mariarta said, “heaven knows what we should do if we find the story to be the truth.”
“Gold for me,” Flisch said cheerfully. “You can have the magic cowbell if you want it. The enchanted maiden, or whatever she is, I don’t want her, and she’s no good to you.”